


Oh the boy's a slag, the best you've ever had.

by oldhotradio



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, M/M, god wish me luck, if you squint you might catch a glimpse of something else, narry basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldhotradio/pseuds/oldhotradio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's a real asshole, but he's so pretty that everyone just kind of deals with it. Niall is in love, Louis is outrageous, and Zayn spends the entire time getting high with Liam's cat without anyone knowing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In other words you're probably about to read this pointless thing about the biggest five idiots in Mass. I promise you I have no idea where I'm headed with this yet, but it'll be great I think in a really weird, profane way.
> 
> The title is a courtesy of the Arctic Monkey's - Flourescent Adolescent, (best song ever by the way, for those who haven't heard it i'm forcing you to do so right now) and everyone in this story is a potty mouth. 
> 
> While we're here I should also mention that the characters in the story are mine, just not the band of which I chose to heavily influence the plot around. Thank you for sticking around, if you do, and I really, really, really hope you enjoy this.

`8/1/1975`

Something isn't right.  
  
It's cold now. It's fucking _freezing_ actually, and the familiar warmth that Niall has grown attached to is suddenly gone. So obviously he _has_ to let out that dramatic, semi-conscious groan to let his cuddle buddy know that 'hey, yeah, congrats, dickhead, you've managed to ruin another one of my fucking weekends without even trying.' Because it's  Saturday morning at the crack of dawn, literally, and where the _fuck_ could Louis Tomlinson have gone at a time like this?  
  
Niall wants to fall back asleep so, so— _fuck_ —so god damn much. But he can't. He can't sleep when all he's known for the last month or two is sleeping in Louis' arms, 'cause it feels weird not being sheltered by them. It should be carved into the back of the older boy's mind now that he's basically in charge of Niall's sleeping schedule and that because of that he should be around long enough for him to get atleast 9 hours a night. But obviously it isn't. And as Niall's incredibly lazy blue eyes flutter open into the darkness he can't help but wonder: _Where has everyone's fucking common courtesy gone?_  
  
The blonde gazes into the darkness with a frown, body turning over as he lets his frail arm rest on the warm spot that was once his, too, very unconcious roommate. He blinks, once, and twice, glaring at the same spot on his bed for what seems like an hour. And during that entire time, he finds that his eyebrows are knitted together and his frustration is traded with curiosity. He's thinking—he's growing worried by the minute, even a little nervous, maybe. Scenarios begin running through his mind, like, Louis was kidnapped and buttraped by one of those little fuckers up Baker street—most probably that Zayn, a dark haired prick who constantly stares at his ass like it's a giant pot pie. Or maybe he's got a really bad case of the shits and he's dropping a load in the toilet as we speak. The 'what if's and 'maybe's are eating him alive pretty soon, and he swears he would call Louis' name to make sure he's alright—but he can't. He _can_ , (actually)—but—no, he can't. 'Cause see, Niall's got this thing where he refuses to speak a word before he brushes his teeth. And no one understands it because he's not anal about anything else related to hygeine. He's that friend that showers the least, and laughs the most after freely passing gas. Yet he literally can't say anything to anyone in the morning without first making sure his breath doesn't taste, nor smell like shit. Obviously everyone around, even Louis, (the royal prick who flew in straight from the Queen of England's cunthole, Niall's pretty sure) is usually like: "who fucking cares?" when he mentions it, but the drama queen is convinced that this is, like, his biggest downfall in life, and that no one—not even his worse enemy, should be punished with the smell of ANYONE'S morning breath as far as he's concerned.  
  
Anyway, I digress.  
  
Where were we? Oh, right, Louis' gone.  
  
So he's swallowed whole by his thoughts now, this blonde kid; But before his mind leaps into another wild conclusion, as if on queue, there goes the CRASH and BOOM that are about to be the answers to all of his questions. His ears perk up and he looks around, trying to make sure he's not just hearing things.  
  
"Niall! Mother Mary, Joseph, and sweet baby Jesus— _Niall_ , NIALL!"  
  
And that—damnit—yes, embarassingly enough, that is his best friend. The only asshole around town that willingly uses terms like ' _mother mary, joseph, and sweet baby jesus_ ' and ' _goodness me_ '. Just, just do Niall a favor and don't look at him like that. With those weird eyes, I mean. 'Cause his best friend is a fucking _brit_ for christs' sake, alright? None of the weird shit he says and does should surprise you in the least. And, in Niall's defense, that boy's lingo is one of the many reasons why he's vowed to keep one British person in his life, and one only. Not like he ever has to make that choice really, 'cause immigrants are rare in his town unless they're from Italy, and quite honestly he's still not even sure how Louis went from United Kingdom to the middle of nowhere Massachusetts—though after nearly a year of knowing the boy he's decided that he's not the least bit concerned with it anymore.  
  
His reply to the ruckus is a huff of half frustration, half relief, 'cause Louis must be cooking breakfast which always calls for a good meal, but it also comes hand in hand with him making a big shit out of kitchen almost 99.9% of the time. So obviously Niall has to rise from his slumber, but that's not before he sits up, and practically rips his t-shirt off allowing him actual comfort—something he finds himself doing every fucking morning now due to Louis' (very annoying and inconsiderate): 'If we're going to cuddle tonight, please be fully clothed,' rule. _All hail the king of prudes_ , Niall's thinking as he flings his shirt across the room and gets up out of the comfort that is his bed, eyes inevitably rolling upward, (because yeah, this situation was kind of missing an eyeroll).  
  
With that, Niall walks out of his room aimlessly tripping over a few cans of cola and some boxes of Papa John's with a couple of moans and groans. And he almost falls on his face. Three times, actually. But he figures, _eh_ , not only is he still half-a-fucking-sleep, but today is not the day he suddenly cares enough about what looks like the after effects of a tornado in his lair enough to clean it up. He stumbles out and wobbles down the hall with a fist in his roughly dyed golden locks, triple bags shadowing his eyes more evidently than they usually do.  
  
"What do you want? Do you want money? Do you want sex?" Louis' voice is way too _fucking_ loud as Niall zombie-walks toward the living room, the source of a slowly strobing green green light—now sort of blue (most probably Louis' 50 cent lightsaber), and he's really thinking his roommate is in danger. 'Cause there's obviously some sort of a threat in his home, and with Louis' way of words he's bound to fuck something up soon enough. It's true, Niall knows it, and it's more embarassing that anything else which is why when Louis speaks his next few words the blonde can't help but pinch the bridge of his nose and shake his head.  
  
"You don't want me? Fine, but listen," When he clears his throat alters it down to a hush that's exactly how you know it gets bad. "I've got a blonde sleeping back there that's so—so good for you, so good I swear, and you two actually look like you could be cute together. Maybe. He's a boy, not a girl, but, you could take him, buttfuck him, whatever you wanna do and we will _never_ talk about this agai—w-wait, what are you doing?" _I guess the rules are 'when in doubt play fucking matchmaker with your roommate and the criminal_ ' _now_ , Niall's thinking, at least a little more than half awake now as he looks off into the darkness with a look that says 'unbe-fucking-lievable'. He walks into the living room without thinking about much except for fighting for his (still very tight and untouched, by the way) anus; and then he catches the scene. Louis is in his undergarments, (also known as those XXS Hanes briefs that Niall's tried to get rid of for the past century, because ' _Jesus fuckin' christ, Lou, let your prick breathe, will you?_ ') and his trusty light saber in hand following behind a figure, a boy, who's walking toward the kitchen in what looks like just a pair of boxers too—if Niall's mind isn't playing tricks on him.

"Why are you going to the kitchen? Why are you in _MY_ kitchen?" 

And yeah, if it weren't clear enough already before, Niall now _totally_ knows where he stands as he approaches the situation with his eyebrows squinted in disbelief.

"Yeah fight for your kitchen but give my asshole away like it's a fucking free sample, right?" It's _seriously_ surprising when the hoarse words fall out of his filthy mouth. I mean, seriously. So _seriously_ , in fact, that the blonde immediately slaps his own parted lips like he should slap Louis at the moment. He just spoke. God, who knows why? It's the first time he's done that in hears, and it's still disgusting but he's willing to see past it for atleast a millisecond and handle the major situation at hand, here. However, even at the moment where there's a stranger in their home who's rummaging through the refrigerator like it's his very own business, Louis can't help but turn to face Niall with a shit-eating grin, (illuminated by that light saber he's got in his hands down there).

"That, my friend, is the definition of the word _gobsmacked. And your breath wreeks._ " The brit whispers, and he's still smiling for the next few seconds, like he's genuinely delighted. _It's like, christmas morning for this kid and he's just unwrapped a big fat dildo_ , Niall thinks, smiling to himself and punching his own shoulder 'cause god damnit sure he's an idiot, but his idiotic thoughts might just end up being enough payback for all the shit his roommate has done this morning to piss him off. That, along with the middle finger that the all-american has to stick up in Louis' direction before clearing his throat and deciding to take matters into his own hands. 'Matters', he considers, being that creep in their kitchen who's sniffing a block of cheese when he walks up beside him, eyebrows raised and arms crossed over his chest as the kid casually continues on his search for god-knows-what.

"Hey, dick," It's a few moments later when Niall speaks, and it's light. Friendly, one would say. He only wants to get the rascal's attention, really. See his face, rate him on a scale from one to ten ( _as you do_ ), and then decide whether or not he wants to call the FBI and head back to bed with a pinch to Louis' ass and a cigarette hanging from his lips. 

The boy looks up. Yeah, of course he does, and jesus, I mean— _fuck_ —Niall's got to give himself a minute to breathe or he'll suffocate or have an aneurysm or some shit, 'cause, woah. Nothing but the flickering light bulb in the refrigerator is helping him see this kid's face, but even with the half, or third, or whatever he sees of it is enough for him to figure that he's gotta be dreaming. Yeah, that's it. He's still in bed, having a wet dream about some curly-haired, green-eyed, shirtless  _weirdo_ who came to steal all the food in his house in his fucking underwear; and it'll end with his lips against the others, pinned against the refrigerator with nothing but the sound of their smacking saliva echoing along the room before he mutters some shit about how bad his breath must taste and his highness himself whispers a small,

"What the _fuck_ are you staring at?" 

Wait, no, that's not what he's supposed to say, is it? No, not really. But god, his voice makes the blonde want him to want to wreck him as much as he wants to be wrecked by this asshole. It sounds like the boy—man—hasn't had sleep in a week, and if Niall saw his face properly he would probably know how to estimate the exact amount of time he's gone without shut eye because he's proclaimed himself the god of insomnia. And it's deep, his tone. It's really, really deep, like deeper than any male's voice Niall's heard. But it isn't like, HULK SMASH deep, _you know_? He's not sure if Louis' just heard that, or if it again, is all in his head, (because hey, who can be sure about anything when they're only on 7 out of the 9 hours of sleep you're supposed to have, right?) but he's pretty sure the other boy would bust a nut then and there if his ears were blessed with that beautiful sound. And maybe he would be able to handle it better than his dumbfounded roommate could, because all he could whisper is:

"God."

And then after a deep breath, maybe some time to gather his spiraling thoughts (thank god), he's able to muster up something better.

"I'm just admiring the moron sniffing a block of cheddar cheese in my fucking 'frigerator." And, _that's more like it_ , he decides, proudly listening to the sound of Louis' tiny giggle running along the walls and hitting Niall's collections of seashells, candles, snowglobes, dollar bills, and all the other pointless pretty shit he finds or saves, whenever, that fill up every room of every shelf in the house. 

That stranger's still at the fridge after a few moments, twelve seconds max, just staring at Niall. Like, scanning his face with his own tired, puzzled eyes and probably wondering when exactly _the fuck_ he asked this pewny douchebag to speak. And after deciding he doesn't care, wholesomely, he turns back around and grabs a carton of 1% milk from that very refrigerator then holds it up to Niall as if proposing a toast.

"It's Harry," He's sure to inform with some smirk pulling on his lips (which if Niall was picking apples by the way, he would most definitely choose due to the plump and redness of the pair) as he raises an eyebrow and dips his head back along with the carton of milk that falls attached to his lips. It almost takes Niall a few seconds to register that he's _drinking_ the milk, actually downing it nonstop, his adams apple sliding up and down his trachea with unforgivable gulping sounds that almost make the boy cry. And then, when he's most likely done, he wipes his lips with the back of his hand, the left one, and ever so casually shoves the carton back into it's place, letting go of the handle to the refrigerator and allowing it to shut with a thudlike sound. "And thanks for the milk." 

Then he's gone. He's actually  _gone_ from Louis' and Niall's prescense as if he were never even there, like—

"What the _fuck_ , yo?"

And you'd think a few hours later, as the boys limbs are tangled on their rusty old couch, (that Niall _swears to god_ he was sober when he bought) from that one thrift shop in shitsville, that they've got better things to mumble about than the boy who drank their entire carton of milk at 6:12 am this morning—but wanna know what? They don't. And as confused and fucked up as the situation had left Niall's mental state, along with Louis' feelings (which are pretty badly hurt, since Harry left without even making any form of innuendo or slipping him a piece of paper with the words 'call me' scribbled across them), they can't help but wonder how much prettier a human being can really look in nothing but the faint light coming from a light saber and a dying light bulb.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important factoid: Harry's across the door neighbors are lactose intolerant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sweating viciously) I...don't even know what to say about this chapter. It's a filler. Kinda. I just wanted to introduce Harry 'cause he's really weird and so is the rest of this story but whatever I hope you like it anyway!!! You might catch some lil' errors here and there. This is too long for me to go over 50000 times ok?? Enjoy!

`9/13/1975`

Harry's accepted the fact that he doesn't care about much at all. It's Dr. Gellar who obviously hasn't caught onto it yet.

Regardless of the lack of eye contact he makes or the irresponsibility and clumsiness that seems to follow him everywhere he goes, she is still oblivious to all of the fucks he's stopped giving a while ago. And their sessions have been seeming more and more insignificant to him because she repeats the same commands and (shitty) pieces of advice that she thinks are effective enough to be able to call herself a professional psychologist, when in reality her voice automatically makes Harry's hearing go numb and her words don't linger in his mind for more than a split second before they slip away and get replaced by some other meaningless locutions that won't ever make a difference in him as long as he lives.

Today though, in particular, she's really pushing his buttons.

This isn't one of those days where it's personal, you know? Where he can get up, dust his ass off and feel alright again if he at any time feels insulted by some of the things she says. No, today it feels like a loss against the constant battle he's been fighting against the world for years. Because being the weird kid that hasn't any fucks to give has it's perks, it's true. But it's not the same when you have people with Gellar's mentality roaming the planet. People who think that being a kiss-ass and buying your new neighbors a vase of flowers is a great way to have them try get to know you—that knocking on their door, (politely, Harry might add) strolling in and introducing yourself before treating yourself to a carton of milk is absolutely disgusting, and unbecoming behavior. This is coming from the woman who is wearing allover animal print, a light purple fur coat, green stilettos and some lipstick red enough to stop traffic on an open road. Disgusting and unbecoming should be inscribed on her fucking forehead in Harry's opinion.

But still, he's got to cooperate. 'Cause his dad back home really shouldn't have continued to pay for this piece of shit shrink, but he could still hear the words "I'm payin' one-fifty per session here, kid. Least you could do is show some effort," playing back in his mind like a broken record—so, yeah, he's got to act like he wants it even though the man still doesn't understand that being an asshole isn't something that requires psychological attention. With that as his motivation he finally sighs heavily and begins to speak while his eyes slowly roll down from the ceiling where they've been staring for the last, I don't know, half hour that she's been waiting for his reply.

"I already told you no one got hurt, lady." It's a simple concept to him, the idea of being a dick without giving anyone an actual black eye, and he doesn't feel he wants to explain his philosophy to this woman again; but that doesn't mean he won't ramble for the remaining amount of time if it means it'll stop her from talking all that psychological bullshit and telling him lies every other second like he's anticipating she'll do right now.

"Well I'm hurt."

 _Lie. You don't give a shit._ His thoughts are dismissing her words with a derisive grimace smeared across his face.

"And so is your father."

_Lie, again. If my dad knew I chugged an entire carton of 1% milk he'd probably pat my back and chant, "Yeah bitch, calcium!" around the city for like 4 days straight._

"You're so sweet when you actually try, Harry. When you're not theiving and—"

"Jesus, I said everyone is fine, didn't I?" The words slice right through the speech that Harry's already heard more than a million times when he's decided he's done. "I'm not a mental case, Laura. So stop making it seem like I am." Her first name is definitely not supposed to come out of his mouth, especially not in that tone. He's been warned more than twice about it but he refuses to listen on days like this. Days when she pushes his buttons so hard that he has to speak through his teeth while his hands are balled into fists and his nails dig so deep into his palms they leave crescent moon resembling marks there.

"I don't need you pitying me and lecturing me all over a carton of milk, okay? This happened over a month ago for fucks sake, I'm pretty sure those two dipshits don't have their panties in their twist about it even half as much as you still do. Call the cops, call my dad, do what you want Dr. Gellar. I've been all over the country, one single shrink in Boston is not going to make a difference in my life. Not today, not tomorrow—not even a few decades from now when I've forgotten about you and this shitty place." Harry's way too annoyed now, I mean after actually having to speak? God—and he's kind of wondering why he hasn't already walked out of the door when he pushes his seat back ruthlessly and stands on his limbs, always of course very similar to that of a newborn giraffe getting on it's legs for the first time.

"Wh-where are you going? We're not done here, our session isn't over for another—"

"Miss," He doesn't even hesitate before answering the older woman that's peering up at him from her glasses, veiny hands shaking from the obvious nerves she's developed since he's walked through the door. "With all due respect, I really don't care."

And then he's gone. Gone just as easily as he departs from anywhere else he goes. Quick and painlessly, thanks to the one thing his long legs actually do right for him, which some might even refer to as a more efficient means of transportation than public transit.

128 miles.

Two hours and thirteen minutes in exact is how long it takes to drive from Boston to Lenox Dale. And it would be a lie if I said that Harry wasn't wholeheartedly singing along to Rick Springfield the entire way home, to that little blue house he'd been renting since last month. You know, the one on baker street that was jammed in between the blonde and brunette residences. The worn out yellow domicile on his right owned by that pretty blue eyed smartmouth with the shitty dye job, along with some sandy haired boy, (who after seeing in his briefs and a light saber at the crack of dawn Harry decided is way too gay for him to handle). And then the red house to his right which is the home to Liam (last name something like Wayne, Harry thinks), some doofus who had introduced himself to his neighbor the very first day he'd seen an unfamiliar beat up Dodge Challenger parked out on the street. There's also a raven-haired hotrod who practically lives with Liam. Drops by almost every god damn day and Harry's always gotta run inside and lock his door everytime he sees that '69 Chevy parked across the street, 'cause that kid is always touching his fucking hair.

"Good morning, Harry!"

Oh, and we can't forget Mr. and Mrs. Schnieder, that old decrepit couple across the street who Harry doesn't go a day without seeing. The pair that in the midst of a tornado, the boy is pretty sure will wave a good morning to him with newspaper and one of their fancy matching robes on. Everyone knows and has a positive opinion on them, apparently, and for Harry it's really hard not to fall in love with them too. 'Cause 'Theyre so sympatico' as Liam puts it, and an already faded Zayn screams 'Love on, lovers!' whenever they happen to be on their stroll while the trio is smoking on the sidewalk. Plus, it really doesn't help that they have taken a strong liking to Harry. His other neighbors are convinced that they love him and Zayn promises it's because his curls, but Harry swears that 'no, they don't', and that no, he doesn't totally enjoy going across the street having early morning sports oriented conversations with Mr. Schneider. So shut up about it.

(He actually does. He, really, really does.)

"Mornin' Walter, morning Jane." The boy salutes the senior citizens across the street who are peacefully whistling along with summer's dying winds, a little something that Harry has yet to get used to throughout the day since it's weird compared to New York City's continuous humid days and still nights until later in the month of September.

"Havin' a good day?!" Mr. Schneider calls across on Harry's way up to his front door and the curly haired boy can't help but laugh with a shake of his head, looking back at the smiling man as his mind flashes back to Laura Geller: The bane of his existence.

"You wouldn't believe how shitty it's going even if I..." He barely finishes his sentence, mumbling the last few bits he can get out as his attention is stolen by the familiar creeking of a front door to his right. Under the sunlight Harry squints his eyes, allowing him to identify a boy seemingly forcing himself out of his house while a hand lazily scratches at his brunette roots. He's wearing an oversized Rolling Stones t-shirt that looks like it's just been dug up from the depths of hell, some gray sweatpants that are almost falling to the ground, and his naked feet are welcoming of any sickness or viruses that the sidewalk might be offering. Though, yes, the kid looks like every really bad hangover that's ever existed since B.C, and he's probably just rolled straight out of bed without brushing his teeth or even glancing in a mirror—he looks really fuckin' pretty.

Harry can't help but to raise his eyebrows in amusement as the boy yawns his way over to his mailbox with no enthusiasm at all. I mean really, the whole entire look yells 'I don't give a fuck', even the way the kid might know he's got Harry and the Schneider's undivided attention now and he's not even attempting to pull himself together. It's almost inspiring, actually. It's the same way he had seen him tumbling into his living room last month when Harry had run out of beverages in his own house and decided to down the other's entire carton of milk. There's no real difference in the situation except for the sunlight at 11:50 am this morning that's making blondie over there hold a hand up to the sky and groan in protest like Count Dracula. Oh, and that old couple across the street that's smiling fondly at the boy like this is the usual everyday behavior coming from him. Harry doesn't doubt that one bit.

"Good morning Niall!"

And—god, now is it really necessary to yell anymore? At this point Harry's dying to yell 'calm down, Schneiders,' because no one else on Baker street is up and out at this time of the day and you can probably hear a pin drop from someone's house if you listen really carefully. So, seriously, there's no need for the exclamations—even if you're that old.

"Yeah, hey Walt." It's not surprising that the boy, 'Niall', looks and sounds reluctant to speak even though his neighbors are just being...well, neighborly. "Jane." He mutters, back facing the couple as he opens his mailbox, obviously expecting to find nothing which is why he's the slightest surprised at seeing single blue envelope sitting there, which he grabs and stuffs in the waistband of his sweatpants before rolling his eyes and slamming the mailbox shut.  
  
"Coming over for your big surprise party later, aren't ya'!" Mrs. Schneider smiles across the street and Harry's eyes are still squinted as they flicker back and forth from that kid, to the couple who are surprisingly still holding themselves up on that one cane. Okay—is he the only one that heard that correctly? Is he the only one who's mind just did a 360 wrap around that entire question and still didn't seem to get it no matter how many times he said it to himself? 'Cause who in their right mind asks someone if they're coming to their own 'surprise' party? That whole sentence is an oxymoron, and everyone seems to be okay with it except for Harry, who's eyebrows are impossibly furrowed as he tries to make sense of it.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." He replies, and jesus, alright, now curly actually looks annoyed. It's so casual. Why is this conversation so fucking casual? And why does his bitter ken doll neighbor deserve a surprise party? What's the surprise? Like, "surprise, we bought you some proper clothing, hair gel, and a pair of slippers!" or some shit?

"Hey, Harry, why don't you come on over later on?" And ah, alright, if Niall wasn't taking a mental note of Harry presense before this split second, he most definitely is now. The attention from the senior citizens has gone from Niall, (who's squinting in such obvious annoying at the sun that it's so not hard for Harry to continuously imagine him as some kind of half-vampire creature in his mind) to the boy himself, who's got an unturned key in the lowermost lock at his front door and his head much too nosily turned to face his three neighbors.

"It's Niall's birthday and we're throwing him his annual birthday bash, whole neighborhoods gonna be there!" Niall's squinting at Harry as Mrs. Schneider breaks it down for him and he fights not to upchuck that egg and cheese omelette he had from Denny's at 6 AM this morning because of how impossibly cute the old couple is. It's obvious—a little too obvious, that this kid Niall gives no fucks about his birthday. At all. I mean, Harry wouldn't have guessed it was his birthday if the blonde had a 'Happy Birthday' hat on and was prancing around with balloons and fucking party horns. The oldies were far more enthused about his coming of age, obviously, and that made Harry want to vomit. He's not exactly sure if that's a negative thing, either.

"Oh," Harry says, putting on some smile he got from god-knows-where and glancing back and forth between the Schneider's and Niall, who's still staring at him like a hundred pound stone by the way. "Uh, I'll try to make it out then?" He says, and it comes out as more of a question because he can't remember the last time he eas actually invited somewhere or included in something other than lunch time at one of Staten Island's shittiest juvenile detention centers about three months ago.

"Fabulous!" Yells the Mrs. again, and damn, there goes that baby barf again. Then, after some agnozing moments of the couple screaming something about how the tea is probably ready, or how they're missing the ending of some shitty old good morning show, they've rushed back inside like an earthquake is about to hit—and then it's just Harry. Harry and Niall. Harry going about opening his front door, and Niall who's on his way to his own with his eyes still studying Harry like he's lost something. And just when Harry thinks he's going to finally walk into the comfort of his home and have to deal with no other human contact until he's forced to go outside again, Niall talks.

"Hey, the Schneider's are lactose intolerant." He calls, and Harry can't even comprehend what— "I hope you like Silk Soy Milk, prick."

And then, with a grin, a masochistic, evil, bitter little fucking grin, blondie's gone.


End file.
